To make amends for previously talking about a woman’s “personal business,” I will list the reasons why I love my grandmother:
- In my pre-teen years, she would take me to any movie I wanted. For example, I saw Buffy the Vampire Slayer AND Don’t Tell Mom, The Babysitter’s Dead with her. She took a nap in the back row while I sat in the front. Thank God, because who knows what would have happened if she actually watched the movies. I may have been shipped off to military school. Or a psychiatrist.
- A widow at 74, she had herself a boy-toy by 76. Sure, he’s almost 90, but when you have to get that paper like Anna Nicole, you get that paper like Anna Nicole. You go, girl.
- Every Christmas, she gives every member of the immediate family a jar full of quarters. Fifty dollars a piece. That’s like 6 months worth of laundry, if not 20 trips to Taco Bell. Christmas is a year-round deal with those quarters.
- She bought me a Barbie when I was 8 and didn’t ask questions. My guess is she knew better. That doll never fully recovered. Some scars are just too deep.
- She’s adorably racist. Awww, you still say “colored.” That’s just precious.
- She always lets me know that I’m the second grandson by referring to me as Andy-Matt. As in, “Andy, I mean, Matt, would you open this jar for me?” I need to know where I stand on the importance totem pole, you know?
- When me or my brother go out with her, she’ll let everyone we come in contact with know that we’re her grandsons. Over the years, I’ve had many a waitress smile and say “Good for youuuuuu.” I kind of like being somebody’s walking trophy. It boosts the ol’ morale.
- She’s been taking us to Value City for twenty years. When the store in her neighborhood went out of business this past Christmas, she took us one last time, gave us a hundred dollars and said “Go nuts.” I picked up a brown valour sports coat, and a copy of The Majestic, a highly underrated little Frank Darabont movie. She was more interested in the coat. I’ve picked up more garbage in that store over the years than Emilio Estevez ever could have in Men at Work. In fact, I think I bought an Emilio Estevez there one time, but had to return him due to unremovable stains.
- She still gives me birthday cards with race cars on them, despite the fact that I’ve never liked race cars. 10-year old Matthew didn’t like race cars, and 28-year old Matthew still doesn’t like race cars. But, hey, thanks for thinking of me. The card could just be a picture of a decapitated puppy, but at least it says “Happy Birthday, Love Grandma” on the inside.
- And most importantly, she tells me she loves me, “even though I know you won’t say it back.” She understands my inability to show emotion. She gets me.
And there you go, ten backhanded compliments for my grandmother. This accomplished nothing.